The Art of Meeting Your Idol
by May000
Summary: Meeting L is strange and not what Mello expected, but he wanted to take in every detail, anyway.


A/N: This was written for a prompt on Tumblr.

The Art of Meeting Your Idol

Mello didn't really want to admit to anyone the real reason why he was interested in being in the Wammy's House foyer at that particular time. Not that he needed to; the only reason anyone would challenge him about anything like that would be if they were particularly new or particularly stupid. If they were the former, then it was very bad luck on their part that they approached him before the other students could tell the newbie how things rolled in the house, away from Roger's prying eyes. It had happened once or twice; somebody who had been used to being intimidating had entered the house and decided to throw their weight around. And had come to regret it. What Mello lacked in physical size and strength he made up for in sheer bloody-mindedness and viciousness. And both he and Near seemed to be pretty terrifying to the rest of house simply because of their status.

If the person was stupid, then they wouldn't be in the house, at all. The whole point of it was to find a successor for L, although Mello had heard that it hadn't always been that way, and that L, himself, had grown up in the house. It had still been a home for gifted children, then, apparently.

Anyway, the rumours went that Mello and Near were hand-picked by L himself, and that he spent many an hour tutoring them. This was somewhat incorrect, although Mello had never felt moved to correct anybody. It added to his rep, anyway, and if they were going to mess with him before, they certainly didn't when they thought that he was pretty much L's right hand man. And they thought this about Near, too, which grated, although he noticed that the other boy wasn't bothering to debunk the myth, either. In truth, he'd met L only a few times before in person, and they had actually spoken, which Mello could still say was probably more than most of Wammy's House could say.

It had actually been that L had huddled in his chair while Mr Wammy had told him, in his mannered way, that he was one of the prime successors to L. Mello had felt such excitement spark in his gut that he almost didn't think to look at L, for a moment. To tell the truth, L wasn't anything like Mello thought. Ever since he'd entered the house, Mello had imagined somebody in a black leather coat and a neat scar across his cheek. This person was thin, dressed in a way that Mello would consider cause for a sneer (although, obviously, he had to stop himself, here) and young. He couldn't have been long out of his teens, if that. Mello, putting threads together, considered that this must have meant that L would have been a detective from a very young age, perhaps even younger than Mello was.

He was curled in on himself, skinny knees hugged to his chest and dark, opaque eyes trained ahead. Very often, new children were hunched and anti-social, blank-eyed after whatever Mr Wammy had pulled them from. L didn't look so much like a figure of inspiration and authority as he did one of them. Mello wasn't sure whether he preferred that or found it disappointing. In some ways, he wanted L to be different to everyone, somebody removed from Mello's reality. That way, he wouldn't fall from what Mello wanted to live up to. On the other hand, he was one of them; as much as he hated to admit it, Mello found some consolation within the walls of the orphanage. It had always made a change from an older sister who thought he was her play-thing and a father who hit him because he thought circles round everyone without meaning to.

And perhaps it wouldn't all be so pathetic if L had been there, too. But Mello had still hoped he would be cool. He tried to imagine the young man in front of him curled up as he was, but dressed in leather with that scar. It didn't really work.

Nevertheless, it was the news that Mello had been waiting for, and perhaps he would be able to find that spark inside L that made him L enough for Mello to like.

Of course, later, Mello was waiting for him because he had.

Throughout the initial meeting, L was non-committal, and only made slight glances at Mello, who couldn't tell whether he was disapproving or analysing. Mello figured that it would be the latter, but something inside him couldn't help but wonder if it was the former. Not knowing made him simmer inside just a little and he forced himself not to snap and ruin the moment.

The meeting didn't take long, and then Mr Wammy gave him a light pat on the head and told him to do his best and left. Roger followed, flashing Mello with a look that told him that he had better behave or else. And then Mello was alone with L.

Who gave him a sideway look. Askance and sceptical, but not disdainful. If L had shown disdain for Mello, then that would have hurt, and Mello wasn't sure that he would be able to suppress his anger, even for L. L was uncurling himself from his seat. Mello had expected him to be as gawky in his movements as in his looks, but he moved with a sort of lithe grace, despite being skinny to the point of bony. His back remained hunched, however, and it was quite uncomfortable to look at, to begin with. L fixed his dark eyes on Mello and crossed the room. He was also fairly tall, although the hunching lessened this.

Waiting in the foyer, Mello kept an eye out for L's distinctively awkward grace. Purposefully covert, he slouched against the wall and glared at anyone who passed through.

L had been biting his thumb, like a nervous teenager and it almost looked ridiculous, but for the tension in the young man's eyes. They had looked vague, almost lifeless, in that way that suggested a light had gone out at some point in the past. Mello had seen people with eyes like that, both during his time at Wammy's and before. But the difference was that Wammy's House children had something that glimmered no matter how dark their eyes were.

And so Mello didn't even have to repress the urge to tease him for being a thumb-sucker. The problem was that, while he knew what not to say, he didn't know what he should say. The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Then L smiled, the line of his mouth curled up like a drawn picture.

"Mello," he said. "I'm glad you could come and see me today."

Mello nodded, mutely, and L turned away, and gestured that Mello follow him. The office had a desk and a couple of chairs, but L folded himself up on the floor. Again, Mello found himself fascinated by the way that he moved. A fleeting wonder of what L's body looked like underneath his shirt went through Mello's mind. It was a thought that made him feel a bit uncomfortable, which Mello didn't like to think he felt.

It didn't matter, though, because he kept having to remind himself that L was spending time with him, and only him.

"You are my successor, now," he said. His voice was bland, not with any stern, authorative tone that every other adult seemed to use with Mello.

There were a lot of things to notice about L, it seemed. Like his dark eyes, large and shadowed, and his thick dark hair which he sometimes brushed out of his face with his long, spindly fingers, which were white and slightly uneven yet fine. His voice was low and steady, with little inflection or intense emotion. Mello considered that no-one else was allowed to think about these things. That was the brilliant thing.

L told him a story about his past. How he had beaten two famous detectives called Eraldo Coil and Denuve and had taken their names and their legacies with him. It was impressive, so very impressive, but what was more impressive was that L was telling it to him and only him and everyone else, even Near, was off playing or studying or doing something inane that wasn't in L's presence. L's skill at telling stories was not particularly gripping or intricate, but it was still coming from him.

Mello was the one with those eyes on him. Anything that glimmered in their depths, glimmered only for him.

After the meeting, Mello felt a little empty, inside. L had gone- gone to America, or so he said. Still, Mello thought about him later. Those exploratory eyes and those deft fingers. He let himself imagine further what L looked like underneath the white shirt.

Much later, his covert waiting in the lobby was rewarding by a shuffling and a padding of bare feet once L had removed his shoes. Mello turned and there were those eyes and that hair and his skin was still as pale as ever. He was even thinner than before, however, and the bags under his eyes had only increased.

"New case," tested Mello.

L nodded, absently.

"Kira," confirmed Mello.

L said nothing, but fixed him with those same eyes and something moved in them just for him.


End file.
